


Build a whole world

by aphrodite_mine



Series: In a House by the Sea [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Disabled Character, Disabled Character of Color, Escape from Your Awful Narratives, Everyone Is Alive, F/F, Feels, Gen, Hannibal-Free, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Queer Character, Rating May Change, self-surgery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1793923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It makes me sick that he might go free" the email says, "his smug face and three fucking piece suits."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>Everyone is alive and getting the fuck out of dodge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Contains fairly detailed description of self-surgery. Suspension of disbelief requested. Any/all depections of disabled characters will be researched carefully, but please call me on any shit. Additional characters/pairings will be added as the story unfolds.
> 
> And... pairings aren't set in stone, so. [Let me know what you'd like to see.](http://aphrodite-mine.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> Title and inspiration comes from a quote from Carol Rifka Brunt's "Tell the Wolves I'm Home."
> 
> (Thanks to majesdane, mage_girl, and others for letting me babble about this and giving me encouragement.)

_Now_

Every blink sends shooting pain everywhere, and so Alana decides to keep her eyes shut for awhile. She must be on morphine, or something even more powerful, because she can't feel what she knows happened. She can't… focus, can't think about what should be hurting. Can't even visualize him. 

It slips past her consciousness like soap in water.

Hours pass, or maybe even days. Time is marked by fingers at her pulse and the quiet murmur of nurses making notes in her chart. 

She dreams, but the dreams are muffled and cloudy. They twist through her mind, moving shadows. The shadows shift, then still, then something -- someone -- seeps through. "Doctor Bloom," the voice says, murky. Smoke. 

Alana isn't sure she could speak, even if she knew the words to say. 

*

_Four Weeks Ago_

Beverly Katz disappears like a pro. Well, most of her does. 

She sits in a bathtub in New York City, trying not to retch at the infection starting to set in around her hastily done stitches. Hannibal Lecter -- the Chesapeake Ripper, _damnit_ \-- hasn't done her any favors in letting her walk away this time. (There won't be a next.) She tries not to think about _why_ he let her live. There is no reason, no… motive that she can scry, at least not from here. Maybe that in itself is the reason. Maybe Hannibal Lecter is the type of monster allergic to dark closets and corners. Maybe he wanted to be seen. Known.

Despite the freezing water, blood seeps from Beverly in slow, graceful arcs. She's donated her tongue, two fingers on her left hand, her kidney and her appendix to whatever fucking _art project_ Hannibal has planned for someone who made it close enough to see what he was and still loathe him. 

Hands first, she thinks, sluggish with three shots of whiskey she downed to dull the pain and clean the stub of her tongue. She's… not a surgeon. Something that's becoming more and more obvious. She's made it this far and this long, though. She'll live. 

Rather, Beverly Katz will die, but someone inside of her will carry on. Secretly. Or else. 

"Another brutal strike of the Ripper, this one close to home," Tattle Crime reports. There are pictures. Beverly doesn't bother trying not to vomit, then.

*

_In the face of this personal and public tragedy, Tattle Crime will not be silenced. I believe that the last thing Freddie Lounds would want is for these killers -- and killers like them -- to go unchallenged, unreported-on, and un-apprehended. Thank you for your continued support of Tattle Crime as I attempt to fill these venerable shoes._

_Wendy Dyer_

Freddie pinches the bridge of her nose before stopping to re-read the post. It feels real. It feels _final_ , which, she supposes, death _is_. 

The FBI will lose interest. They already grumble about proxy servers and accommodations, but Jack Crawford and Will Graham swear that there is a reason for this, that she fits into a (poorly arranged, at best) plan that will bring in the Ripper for good. That she'll be a part of history. It's good, then, that Freddie already doesn't trust Jack, or Will, or the FBI. That she's keeping careful record of all of this, in readiness for the day when she can stop hiding. Wendy will do, for now, even if the TC chat regulars are already crying conspiracy.

Freddie hits _Post_ and feels outside of herself. A sort of motion-sickness that doesn't stop even when she closes the laptop.

*

Two emails (of the horde that flock to her -- _Wendy_ 's -- inbox) catch Freddie's eye. The first, from ectoplasm@emailhost.com is entitled "Info" and launches immediately into a poorly-edited text block that insures Freddie/Wendy that the sender has information on the Ripper, that they _had_ information on the Ripper, and perhaps that information is no longer of relevance, but it would help in building a profile. "It makes me sick that he might go free" the email says, "his smug face and three fucking piece suits."

The second, from m2@vergerindustries.org has no subject. The body of the email simply reads "Hannibal Lecter."

*

Beverly has a glass of whiskey on the table next to the laptop. (Is it Will Graham's brand? She can't remember. There's a big, buzzing silence over the past weeks. Her brain frantically trying to save itself from how fucked things have become.) She's almost out of bug-out money, and even shit holes like the one she's claimed (cash only, week-to-week) come at a fee. Still, she doesn't know what she's reaching for, here. There's no way she can go home again, or spill what she does know. He'll find her and finish what he started. She's certain there would be a little something -- a little pain, a little pleasure -- in it to compensate for any regret. 

She can't go away, but she can't stay here. Which is why, Beverly guesses, she's watching a chat window pop up in a fresh browser.

_thank you for agreeing to chat with me, ectoplasm_

_wish it were under better circumstances_ , Bev types, gritting her teeth against a chilly swallow. The liquid turns hot against the back of her throat. Her words don't come out as fluid, two fingers short. Her whole left hand is stiff with pain and ghost feeling. It is slow going.

_to be sure. how secure is your connection, ectoplasm? are there eyes on this?_

Beverly rolls her eyes. Freddie has taught her protege well, it seems. _no one knows I am here. have more than firewall. no names, no watchers_

_fine. you have information about the ripper?_

_about a victim_ Beverly types, her left hand starting to shake. She takes another drink.

_no names, though?_

There is a pause, or maybe a lag in the chat. Then, Wendy is back. _how do you feel about meeting in person, ectoplasm? I hold the identity of my contacts with the utmost privacy._

It is tempting. Beverly has spent long, sleepless nights thinking about what she knows, about what she could say without posting a flag of surrender in Hannibal Lecter's back yard. About the face of a girl who crouches in the corners of her dreams when she does sleep. And she's never met Wendy Dyer, not as Beverly Katz, FBI. 

No risk, no reward. _can you come to me i am not mobile_

_I can come to you._

Bev wonders if she should have learned better self-preservation by now. Wonders if she has anything left to protect.

*

From: wendy@tattle-crime.com  
To: m2@vergerindustries.org  
Subject: RE: (no subject)

You have my ear. How can I reach you?

From: m2@vergerindustries.org  
To: wendy@tattle-crime.com  
Subject: RE: RE: (no subject)

The following phone number will be active for one week. Identify yourself immediately upon calling, and do not waste both our time by calling from an unsecure location or connection.

*

"I can't stay here," Margot Verger says, at the window of her bedroom, surveying her kingdom. The wireless line is crisp, no cracks or pops. "I know… enough to get me killed, I think. Though I am in his favor at the moment."

"In his favor?" Freddie asks, tugging on a curl and letting it slowly spring free. Her hair is limp, tired. 

Margot licks her lips. "He has given me a gift. Much in the way a cat presents a wounded canary." She absently touches her stomach, or rather, the raised scar there. She should have the horses ridden, since she cannot do the job herself for a few more months. "I have accepted, of course, it would be foolish not to. But it is unclear how long this arrangement will satisfy all parties."

"I may be able to propose a solution," Freddie says, knowing what she has come up with is not so much a solution but a child hiding behind a curtain in hide and seek. Feet sticking out in plain view, but eyes covered. She can only offer the gift that's been given to her, and its a gift Freddie wishes she could return.

"And I may be able to offer the funds for such a solution."

*

"Ripper on the run," Beverly reads, when she can focus. "Fuck," she whispers into the dark, "fuck." She doesn't have nearly enough alcohol for this, and isn't about to leave her apartment at this hour, not when her side still aches and burns if she moves too quickly. 

There they are in black and white, and maybe, in another life, Beverly could have stopped it. Could have been five steps faster, five steps _smarter_.

Jack Crawford.

Will Graham. 

Alana Bloom.

Abigail Hobbs.

These are names Beverly has to tattoo on her conscience now, staring at dank walls, tending to sloppy, black stitches.

_can we meet???_

_give me four hours. address?_

*

In exactly four hours and three minutes, Freddie Lounds pulls up to an oddly-bustling diner in a truly shitty area of New York City. Before she leaves the car (her decade-old Acura isn't likely to be a target), Freddie covers her hair with a bright blue scarf, her eyes with sunglasses. The already dark night goes dim.

Fourth booth back from the door, there's the back of a head and a coffee in front of an empty seat. "That's my cue," Freddie mumbles, pulling her notebook out of her purse. She slides into the seat, flicks her eyes up (many of her informants aren't exactly comfortable with this kind of face-to-face contact) and nearly chokes.

"You're fucking with me."

The woman, _Beverly Goddamn Katz_ , exhales and shakes her head. "Or ot," she says, grimaces and snatches Freddie's notebook, then impatiently gestures for a pen. Stunned, Freddie complies.

 _Youre not Wendy_ Beverly writes, because it _is_ Beverly Katz, holy _fuck_.

"No," Freddie says, "I'm not."

*

It doesn't take Beverly long to pack. Her things consist of a second outfit, some empty bottles, and a laptop. For the most part, Freddie is surprisingly good, for a dead person, at parsing what Bev tries to say, and what she doesn't understand they attempt to translate with gestures and a few words on notepad. 

The drive back to Baltimore is, unsurprisingly, a quiet one. "I'm getting out of here," Freddie finally says, as they cross yet another state line. "I found a house, a place." When Beverly doesn't respond, Freddie continues. "Up on a hill by the ocean," she says, staring into the white lines bisecting the darkness. "Far enough away that no one will know us. And we could breathe, maybe."

Beverly points to Freddie, then herself, and shrugs.

"Yes. You, of course. I'd like to offer safe haven to Alana Bloom as well, but I'm not sure how feasible that is. Dead girls don't get many interviews. We have a… decent bankroll, care of Margot Verger."

Beverly blinks, considering. She reaches for the notepad and writes in large letters _I might be able to help with Alana_ , passing the page in front of the steering wheel. 

Freddie nods once. "That would be good. That would be really good."

*

Shadows and voice solidify and become whole. "My name is Margot Verger. I am… quite certain you haven't heard of me, however we have… a mutual acquaintance." Under normal circumstances, Alana might pick up the clues, but when she tries, thinking feels like slogging through mud. She licks her lips dryly, and tries to clear her throat.

"Someone who may still very well have an eye on you, and me. And Will Graham?" Margot drops her hand onto the headboard of Alana's hospital bed. If the name isn't in her words, it _is_ in Margot's eyes. _Hannibal Lecter_. Alana doesn't dare say it aloud, just as -- she's sure -- Margot doesn't either.

Words build up and some spill out without conscious speech or intent. "Help," and "Please," and other sounds that Alana doesn't recognize from her own lips. She is someone she cannot recognize any longer. She sounds like a stranger.

"I can help you, Doctor Bloom," Margot says, silently and skillfully unhooking Alana from monitor after monitor, carefully pulling the IV from her arm. "But I'm afraid you're going to feel it. Not much morphine available to-go." Just as the monitors begin their frantic beeping, Margot sweeps the sheets aside and helps Alana, slowly, into a hospital-grade wheelchair.

*

The Acura is as steady as ever, even full of broken women and a trunk full of suitcases and plastic bags. Alana drifts in and out of sleep, Beverly tending to her -- making sure she's buckled in, reading studiously by the overhead light over the chart Margot lifted from Alana's hospital door. With her right hand, Beverly takes Alana's pulse, her lips moving over each number.

"Strange, how little we need when its life or death," Margot murmurs, shooting a glance at Freddie before returning her gaze to the road ahead. 

"It isn't for good," Freddie answers, dropping her head against the window. "I have to believe that this isn't forever."

Margot hums in agreement. "I know this is somewhat of a morbid trip, but can I at least turn on the radio?"

"It's a ten-hour drive. I imagined we would need a little entertainment." From the glove box, Freddie pulls a portfolio of CDs and slides one into the dashboard player. When the first notes bubble out of the speakers, Beverly lets out a sharp noise that, by her grin, Freddie takes for a laugh. 

"Musical theater?" Margot blinks, cool, the corners of her mouth just barely lifting, "I never imagined you had a flair for drama, Ms. Lounds."


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Scream now,” Beverly says, “when it’s still socially acceptable.”_

They’ve been over the plan (they'll hide in the open. Alana, shreds and tatters. Freddie, dead. Margot and Beverly somewhere between the two. They'll listen to the steady burn in their hearts that refuses, and always has, to quit. They'll hold the monster at bay. They'll survive the beasts) and all Alana says in response is a quiet, resigned, “Thank you.”

“Dr. Bloom?” Freddie checks.

Alana shakes her head slowly. “Alana, Freddie. Call me Alana.”

Even with the three who are able rotating shifts behind the wheel, the drive takes longer than it should and by the time they arrive in the crisp sunlight of mid-afternoon, Alana is fully-conscious and gritting her teeth in pain. Watching the series of small towns they pass through helps, though only marginally. Agent Katz – Beverly – squeezes Alana’s hand. “We’ll get something for the pain if you can make it til tomorrow,” she says, her voice low enough, and garbled enough, that Freddie and Margot in the front seat might not hear. Small mercies.

Finally, the last town dwindles to not much of anything – a smattering of houses with long, sandy driveways – and then Freddie slows to pull into one. The house she stops in front of was painted white at some point, with neat, blue shutters. Now, after god knows how many years of wear, the two-story building is mostly a mottled gray. The yard consists of stubborn strands of grass emerging through the sand, and what looks like a stone-lined path out to the true blue that Alana knows is the ocean.

“Not exactly an island getaway, but it’ll do, I think,” Freddie chirps, flipping off the ignition and opening her door. “Apparently, there is some furniture inside, but I make no promises about the condition everything is in. We’ll have to supplement of course—"

“Which I will take care of,” Margot calmly interjects, her tone leaving no room for argument, even if the other women had an argument to stand on.

Freddie smiles, a ghost of an expression. “But I think we’ll be okay for a few days. Shall we unload and take a look around?”

Margot, seemingly five steps ahead, is already at the trunk and when Freddie pops it, wrestles with the stolen wheelchair and then pushes it near Alana’s passenger door. “Agent Katz,” she says, “I think Freddie and I can manage the bags.”

Perhaps she meant to act in kindness, allowing for the most wounded of them to negotiate land legs with a modicum of privacy, but in point of fact, when she and Freddie disappear inside the house, what she really does is leave one handicapped woman to attempt to move another handicapped woman (whose pain relief has well and truly worn off) into a vehicle that neither is particularly familiar with. Her body screaming, pain shooting up from a point low in Alana’s back (below which she feels nothing, not even a dead weight) Alana struggles to keep silent.

“Scream now,” Beverly says, “when it’s still socially acceptable.”

But Alana still refuses.

*

Inside, everything seems to be covered by a fine layer of salt and sand. The door opens to a living room, featuring an overstuffed couch, a recliner that has most certainly seen better days about three decades ago, and a rough-looking table. There are a handful of lamps, and an empty fireplace. Despite the age and unkempt appearance, entering the room feels fresh. The air isn't choked with memories, spirits of what brought them here.

Off the living room in the back of the house is a decent-sized kitchen. The appliances may have been replaced around a decade back, but everything seems to work. There is enough space for groceries and dishes, though they have little of either.

Upstairs, Freddie says, has two bedrooms and a bathroom. There's another, larger bedroom on the main level and an empty room -- what may have been or could become an office, a library, a sitting room. "I imagine that Alana will take this one," Freddie says. "You could stay with her, Beverly, for now?" 

It's odd, seeing Freddie uncertain, shifting her feet.

But then, they all feel that way. Not quite here.

*

They move around the rooms like ghosts, shifting and sighing. 

Alana continues holding it all in. It almost becomes easy, parked in the wheelchair in the corner of what is to be her and Beverly's room. She stares at the wall, at the window, at the mist coming in with the evening tide. She breathes in and out and tries to feel as little as possible. Beverly moves around her, a shadow bleeding a steady stream of one-sided dialogue. "I'm friendly. I'm-- you think I'm approachable, right? So I'll head up there tomorrow and work my magic and we'll get you totally fucking set up with pain meds, and, hell, I should fully examine you, see if there's anything else you need."

Margot starts making calls, sitting still until the energy builds up and she ends up walking the halls, her voice travelling more as sound than words. There are arrangements to be made, shipments to order, loose ends to tie.

The sun sets and Margot's personal lawyer has promised a trip to the estate in the morning to pack up and ship what Margot has left behind. A bedroom set, odds and ends from the living room -- which Mason doesn't frequent anyway -- and her father's desk. There'll be a P O Box under the name Nancy Drew two towns south which they will, henceforth, communicate from. Her location? Not even known to him. It's only out of necessity that he accesses Freddie's car title, pulls more than a few strings, and sets Nancy up with registration and plates.

It's unethical, perhaps, and certainly unheard of, but money makes things happen, and Margot is more aware of that now than ever. She's paying handsomely for this 'leave of absence' and the power she still holds by proxy due to Mason's "mental state." She'll assess every two weeks -- both Mason and the farm.

Freddie uses the last of her phone battery to post -- as Wendy -- to Tattle Crime. Until they get established with Internet access and proxy servers and layers of all the fucking secrecy they can handle, she won't even be able to monitor incoming tips. She knows her readers, knows they won't take this sitting down or at face value, but it's all Wendy can offer.

It feels worse than dying.

She hides it well, tucks it neatly between curls, masks it under makeup. Only the few allowed close enough can smell the decay. Instead of hunting, Freddie paces their small house and reads. 

*

They can't quite risk being seen as themselves, even in this place. After taking orders, Freddie takes a quick trip to the nearest drugstore and brings back proper scissors and a veritable rainbow of hair dye. 

Margot does Beverly first, snipping the length from her pitch-black hair and setting in highlights. Freddie waves her away. "I can handle the dye myself," she says. "I'll never manage to straighten this, so a new color will just have to do." She gestures, instead, for the scissors. "What's your new look, Margot?"

"Short, I think. And I certainly doubt that blondes have more fun, but it's worth a go anyway."

Soon, the kitchen floor is covered with two shades of dark locks, Margot's hair a choppy bob. 

"Dr. B-- Alana?" Freddie asks, once Margot has run fingers through her new cut and nodded in approval.

Alana shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. Just cut it all off."

"Uh," Freddie looks to Margot, to Beverly for support. They just shrug. "Tell me when, okay?" 

She cuts Alana's chestnut hair to her shoulders. "Keep going." To her chin. "More." And higher, when she realizes that with every slice of the scissors, Alana releases a sob. She stops, blades poised to make another cut. "Do it, Freddie. Fucking take all of it," Alana says, and the three women refuse to meet her eyes, but Freddie follows orders. 

She may not like it, but Freddie has always been good at doing what she's told.

*

They stop counting days and measure time in the waves crashing on the shore. In the afternoons, cool spray from the returning tide hits their faces in a fine mist. 

They find themselves without appetite. They tolerate peanut butter and honey sandwiches, boxed macaroni and cheese, salads from bags. They grow pale. Paler than they had been.

For hours at a time, Margot sits at the desk that used to be her father's and calculates and composes directives for the estate. Once a week, she sends a packet of forms to her lawyer. Once a week, she returns with a small allowance that they divide up for food and keeping the lights on.

At night, when they can't sleep, when they bar the windows and doors, and turn all the lights on, Freddie reads aloud. Her voice is crisp and clean and plows relentlessly towards morning.


End file.
